


show me how you miss me

by Edgebug



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Jim having an existential crisis, M/M, Speakeasies, for the seventh time probably, kiss-me-so-your-cover-doesn't-get-blown trope, smitten Oswald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edgebug/pseuds/Edgebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your cover's gone, he's smart," he whispers urgently, "he's got your number. Kiss me."</p><p>Certain he hasn't heard that last part correctly, Jim incredulously hisses "what?!"</p><p>"Kiss me because he's expecting a cop, not a couple, Jim, it'll make you a non-threat--now kiss me unless you want to lose him entirely."</p><p>(In which a relationship begins.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me how you miss me

**Author's Note:**

> Well, someone had to write it.

Okay, so Jim understands how this place stays open. It's nice. Styled kinda like an old jazz club, with plenty of booths and a dance floor and decent live music. Swing, if Jim is right. Really too bad that he's not here for any sort of fun reason. He's here on a stakeout. Undercover.

He settles against the plush wall of his booth and sips his drink--he's been nursing the same rum and Coke since he arrived an hour ago and so far there's been no sign of the man he's keeping watch for. This has the potential to be a long night. The music kicks into a new song and Jim's feet itch a bit. He's a good dancer. Too bad he hasn't been able to dance in ages. Too much work. No time for fun.

His eyes sweep the bar again. A bunch of men talking animatedly up at the counter; laughing women dancing, a small figure with a limp coming in through the door--

Wait.

His gaze slams into Oswald Cobblepot and internally he panics, sliding a bit lower into his seat and trying to be inconspicuous but it's a lost cause: Oswald has eyes like a hawk and finds him instantly, breaking into a grin and shuffling over to him. Jim grits his teeth and shakes his head but it's too late.

"Old friend!" Oswald greets him excitedly, sliding into the booth with him, "what are you doing here alone?"

"Work," Jim snaps. "What are you doing here? What do you want? How did you find me?"

Oswald blinks, looks taken aback for a moment before he gives a tiny laugh. "Well, silly, I didn't follow you here. I didn't even know you were here at all." A pause. "If you must know, I'm simply scoping out my club's competition." 

"So you're saying it's a coincidence that we ran into each other?"

"Complete coincidence," Oswald assures him as he eyes Jim's drink. "You know, if you wanted alcohol, James, you could have just come to my establishment. I wouldn't have charged you a dime."

Jim relaxes somewhat. For some reason he actually believes Oswald. If he'd followed Jim here then he would have shown up an hour ago. It really is a coincidence.

The universe hates him, clearly.

"I'm not here for pleasure," Jim says. "I'm--on a stakeout, okay, so you need to--"

Oswald's eyes widen and he nods. "You're undercover?" he says a little quieter. "Oh, Jim. You're so obvious."

"Obviou--hey!" Jim protests because Oswald's fingers are suddenly sliding into his hair, ruffling it thoroughly out of whack. "What the hell?!"

"You practically reek of police, Jim, I am doing you a favor," he says. "I'm glad you thought to lose your tie but--roll your sleeves to the elbow. And--"

"And what?" Jim asks, exasperatedly, but he does as Oswald says if only to shut him up.

Oswald reaches out and undoes Jim's first shirt button. "There," he says.

"I've done plenty of successful stakeouts without your help," Jim grumbles, trying halfheartedly to smooth his hair back in order--it's no use. 

"A miracle, truly," Oswald says airily, looking disgustingly satisfied with himself as he leans back against the wall.

"I need you to leave," Jim says briskly, and Oswald just casts him a sideways glance. "I'm working."

"So your plan is to sit alone in a speakeasy looking as suspicious as possible? My being here is doing you a service."

The worst part is that Jim can't argue and, honestly, it could be a long night and he doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to be with Oswald, he tells himself, but he doesn't want to be alone. "Fine. Fine, okay. But only because throwing you out would blow my cover," he says, and Oswald grins.

"Let me get a drink. I'll be right back." He pats Jim's shoulder before sliding from the booth and picking his way over to the bar. He's dressed a little more casually today, Jim notices. Well, he's not wearing a jacket, just a vest, which is practically t-shirt laid back for Oswald. Jim watches him smile and charm the bartender, watches him amble slowly back to the booth.

"What the hell," he says as Oswald sets his drink down on the table, "is that." Whatever it is, it's opaque and pastel.

"A Pink Squirrel," Oswald says. "Don't look at me like that, James, there's nothing wrong with a bit of decadence every once in a while." He settles down next to Jim and sips his drink. "So who are we watching out for?"  
  
_"I,"_ Jim says, putting emphasis on the syllable, "am watching out for a blonde, medium-height guy. Long hair, supposedly."

"Mm." There's ice cream in Oswald's fucking drink. Jim watches his pink tongue dart out and lick a speck from his lip. "And what's he done wrong?"

"Murder, I think. If the drug dealer who owns this block and the blonde guy are the same person then we've found our killer."

"So we're watching for a drug drop. An exchange of goods to prove he is the dealer."

"Yeah. But I've been here an hour and the guy is nowhere to be found."

Oswald gives a hum of acknowledgment. "You picked a good vantage point."

It's the booth in the furthest corner of the club, secluded yet with good visibility, especially of the exits. "I told you I've done this successfully before," he says over the rim of his glass before he takes another pull from it. "Believe it or not, I'm a decent cop."

"I never said anything different, my dear detective," Oswald says smoothly. _My dear detective?_   Jim's brain stumbles over Oswald's words and stumble even harder over the curl of warmth that settles in his stomach at the endearment. What.

"So if the blonde man is in fact the drug dealer--?"

"Then I arrest him." Jim crunches a piece of ice between his teeth.

"And go back to the station, I'm assuming," Oswald sighs wistfully. "So our evening would be over."

"We aren't _having_ an _evening_."

"I'm enjoying our _not_ -evening," Oswald says cheekily. "How have you been, Jim?" Oswald is looking at him thoughtfully and expectantly, like he actually wants to hear about Jim's life for no other reason than that he cares. It's a little bizarre but Jim's used to it, when it comes to Oswald.

For some reason, Jim answers. What the hell else is he going to do? He can't chase Oswald away, that would cause a scene. And he might as well make the most of this unfortunate situation and just roll with it. "Moving to a new place," he says. "Stressful, but kinda fun. I've been--fine." He looks sideways at Oswald. "You?"

"Hoping you'd pay me a visit to my club, mainly," he says pointedly. "Business has picked up. It's honestly been a lot of work. There hasn't been much time for... other business," he adds delicately. "This is a major indulgence."  
  
_I'm not going to visit because we aren't friends,_ is what Jim doesn't say. _It's nice to have company,_ is what he also doesn't say. "If you've been keeping your nose clean, then--"

Oswald holds up a finger. "Blonde hair at eleven o'clock," he says, voice dropping low.

Jim instantly looks where Oswald directed him and--yep. There's the guy. He watches as Blonde approaches the bar, watches as he begins casually talking with another patron--and then Blonde looks over and meets Jim's eyes and terror flickers faintly on his face.

Instantly Oswald is leaning close and whispering in his ear. "Your cover's gone, he's smart," he whispers urgently, "he's got your number. Kiss me."

Certain he hasn't heard that last part correctly, Jim incredulously hisses "what?!"

"Kiss me because he's expecting a cop, not a couple, Jim, it'll make you a non-threat--now _kiss me_ unless you want to lose him entirely." Oswald's in his face and the logic is sound and the guy is already inching for the exit and Jim can't afford to lose this guy, he's acting squirrelly and that just about seals his guilt right there and Jim bites the bullet, slides a hand into Oswald's hair and kisses him. Oswald instantly reacts, presses up against Jim as much as he can in that booth; he's wrapping his arms around Jim's neck and his lips are opening under Jim's and he tastes like almond liqueur and vanilla ice cream from that fucking Pink Squirrel and Jim probably would be panicking at how much he likes this if it didn't feel so damn good.

Maybe the kiss lasted for seconds or minutes or fucking hours, honestly Jim can't be sure--but too soon Oswald's pulling back to speak softly against Jim's mouth. "Whisper in my ear. He'll think it's sweet nothings and I'll keep watch."

Jim's a bit dazed so he truly appreciates that Oswald still has a functioning brain. He leans in and does as Oswald says. "Not sure I have tonsils left," he says quietly against Oswald's ear.

"Keep complaining about it and maybe you'll start believing you didn't enjoy it," Oswald murmurs back. "Blonde's calmed down. You can watch him if you put your arm around my shoulders and stay close." Jim nods and pulls away to lean back against the wall of the booth, sliding his arm behind Oswald. Sure enough, the blonde man is talking to a girl standing at the bar. He looks invested in the conversation and Jim gives a sigh of relief. "What did I tell you? Worked like a charm," Oswald says, insufferably smug, and Jim might spend some energy being pissed off at him for it if he wasn't so busy trying to focus on his actual job instead of just kissing Oswald all over again.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, and it comes out less rough and more oddly affectionate. Yet he doesn't have time to have a personal crisis over what just occurred because Blonde is slipping a tiny plastic bag into the girl's hand and the girl is handing him a $20 bill and that's all the evidence Jim needs.

He slides out of the booth, grabbing his handcuffs from his pocket, and crosses the dance floor quickly, approaches Blonde and there's a moment of panic on Blonde's face right before he processes what's going on, and that split second is enough time for Jim to slap the handcuffs on him.

"You're under arrest," he says, "you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will..."

As he reads the rights over the panicked, protesting chatter of the drug dealer, Jim can't help but feel Oswald's gaze on him. Oswald is smiling and when Jim glances over, there's something like pride on his features.

 

-

 

Jim's a fucking wreck at work the entire next day.

He can't pay attention to anything. He keeps losing shit--the same pen has gone missing five times. His mind wanders and it always wanders back to the same goddamn place. He's getting lost in his own head.

"Jim," Harvey says, in that tone of voice which warns of an oncoming thunderstorm, "where the hell is your brain? Cause it sure as shit ain't between your damn ears today."

What the fuck is Jim going to tell him? O _swald Cobblepot kissed me yesterday to help me keep my cover. And oh, yeah, I really liked it and can't stop thinking about doing it again_. He says none of that. He just shakes himself and says "Sorry, Harvey, I just had a weird day yesterday. A lot to think about."

"Girl trouble? That's your 'girl trouble' face," Harvey says, squinting at him.

Jim sighs. "Harvey..."

Harvey holds up both hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. None of my business. Just get your shit together so you start acting like a human again, all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Got it."

 

-

 

 

He's not sure why he ends up back at the goddamn speakeasy that night but nonetheless here he is, in the same booth. Maybe he thought this would distract him from Oswald. Maybe he thought getting drunk would help. Well, he's not drunk yet, and Oswald still haunts his brain.

The band is playing on, swing again tonight. Maybe that's why he's here. The music. He likes the music. Or the atmosphere of the place. Or something like that. He groans and lets his face fall into his hands. He shouldn't be here. The worst part is that the drink in front of him isn't a rum and Coke or even a Jack and Coke.

It's a fucking Pink Squirrel. _He ordered a fucking Pink Squirrel._ The taste of almond and cream lingers in his mouth and it's not as good as it was on Oswald's lips but it's close enough. Sort of.

He should leave.

Instead he takes another sip from his Pink Squirrel. Closes his eyes, lets the ice cream melt on his tongue.

"I had a feeling I might find you here." The soft, sweet voice is laced with something a lot like smugness and Jim knows instantly who it is. His blood should run cold. It doesn't. It just heats up instead.

He looks up, meets Oswald's eyes. "Yeah? And why's that?"

"Something about the guilty party always returning to the scene of the crime, or something," he says with a shrug and the briefest flash of a shy smile. "Mind if I sit down?"

"You didn't ask for permission last night," Jim grumbles without venom. 

"I think you and I both know something's changed since last night," Oswald says, nodding toward the pastel cocktail sitting innocently before Jim. "So, may I?"

Jim nods. "I think you and I both know the answer," he parrots back Oswald's words and Oswald chuckles and settles down.

"Having a crisis about your orientation, Jim?" Oswald asks, and Jim can't tell if his tone is mocking or genuinely sympathetic.

"No." Jim gives a tiny, joyless laugh. "Got _that_ bit of inconvenience out of the way back in the army. This is more a Cobblepot-specific crisis."

Oswald looks down, eyes fixing on the tabletop. "I know I'm not... repulsive to you, Jim. I _know_ you're attracted to me."

"And where the hell can it go, huh?" Jim asks roughly. "You wanna get married, have two-point-five kids and a white picket fence and a dog?"

At that, he looks taken aback. His eyes flit briefly up to Jim's. "Is that what _you_ want?"

Jim throws a hand up in surrender. "I don't _know_."

There's a long pause. "Well," Oswald says slowly, "that makes two of us. Seems like something we can figure out later."

 "This could never work," Jim says, "it's--ludicrous. I'm a cop. You're a--a gangster. I--I--"  
  
_I want to kiss you again. I want to hold you and sleep next to you._ It's fucking ridiculous, it's insane to even think about pursuing a relationship with a gangster, let alone Oswald Cobblepot, but--but Jim knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd regret it if he never tried.

"Is it so ludicrous? We're not--we aren't _that_ different. I want to help you. I want--we both want to make the city better, in our own ways." He looks at Jim quizzically. "Wouldn't you rather have _me_ in a position of underworld power than someone else? Someone you don't know?"

"Yes," he murmurs without having to put any thought into it beforehand. "I would."

Oswald grins. "So not inherently incompatible ideologies. We can think about the picket fence at a later date but I'm not strictly opposed to the idea. It would surely delight my mother to no end, I'm posi--ah!"

Jim's gently grabbed Oswald's chin, moving his face up to look him evenly in the eye. "Don't play with me," he says quietly. There's no danger in his tone. It's not a warning. It's a plead. "Not like this."

"I'd rather die than hurt you, Jim Gordon," Oswald murmurs, eyes wide and earnest, and Jim loses the battle he's waging inside his brain and kisses Oswald.

Oswald makes a surprised squeak against Jim's lips before he absolutely melts against him. It's different from the kiss last night. It's slow and sweet, not a performance, not for anyone but them. Oswald is scrambling closer, he ends up halfway in Jim's lap, hands clinging to the front of his shirt; Jim's got to wrap his arms around Oswald's waist to support him in his awkward positioning. Oswald is warm and alive against Jim and he thinks that maybe, just maybe Oswald's right.

Maybe this entire goddamn thing can work.

Oswald pulls back to breathe, head resting against Jim's. The music's slowed down to a smooth, calm beat. "Dance with me?" Oswald asks hopefully.

"Can you? With your leg...?"

Oswald nods. "I can handle a slow-dance, Jim. It's not the damn foxtrot. Which I used to be able to do, but..." He crooks a smile and slides from the booth, holding out a hand to Jim. "Come on, silly."

Jim can't help the smile that breaks over his features.

Maybe this entire goddamn thing can work, and at this point, he's willing to try.

He takes Oswald's hand.

**Author's Note:**

> yep the title is from ATC's "I'm In Heaven" because I used to be anime trash and every other fanvid was set to that damn song. I'M IN HEAVEN WHEN YOU KISS ME, SHOW ME HOW YOU MISS ME, TAKE ME WITH YOU BACK TO WONDERLAND! I GO CRAZY WHEN YOU KISS ME, CRAZY WHEN YOU KISS ME, YOU WERE SENT TO ME FROM WONDERLAND
> 
> ...okay, so I'm still trash


End file.
